The Malice of Unnatural Death:

by Michael Jecks

  The road to Tavistock

  Simon endured the ride to Tavistock without listening to much of Busse’s talk. So far as he was concerned, the task was complete: Busse had been followed, and he had indeed tried to visit Langatre. It was a shame, especially since Simon was still convinced that Busse would make the better abbot.

  It was a thought that remained with him all the way back, and for his part Busse seemed pensive too. Only Rob was his usual self, whistling tunelessly, talking and complaining about the length of the journey. ‘Is it far now?’

  ‘Be silent!’ Simon snapped after the last plaintive cry. ‘Christ in chains, you whine like a child!’

  ‘It is very cold, is it not?’ Busse commented, his cloak pulled tight about him.

  Simon looked about him wonderingly. There was no snow, no hail, not even a fine mizzle, which was a blessing. ‘It’s not too bad.’

  ‘You are not talking to me, Bailiff. Are you so concerned about my misdemeanours that you refuse to speak to me any further?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Busse smiled quietly at that, and was quiet.

  On this return journey Simon had acquiesced in the monk’s wishes concerning their route, and now they were passing along the great road to Cornwall, passing through Crediton, then south-west along to the northern tip of the moors before turning southwards. As the sun started to sink in the west, they reached the little village of Bow, a place Simon knew quite well, and he was looking forward to stopping for the night. There was a windblown and sad-looking furze bush hanging over the door of the large inn at the centre, and he suggested that they pause for the evening.

  Soon they were inside, Simon gripping a large jug of ale, warming it with the poker he had heated in the fire. Busse had a large mazer of wine in his hand, and he smiled with a sort of sad amiability as Simon tested his ale. ‘You appear to have lost all confidence in me, Bailiff. Do you think that I will lose the post?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that sort of thing,’ Simon said uncomfortably.

  ‘But you think that a future abbot should not indulge his whimsy by consulting a man like Langatre?’

  Simon set his jaw, but he was no hypocrite. ‘I do not suppose to understand the use of a man like him.’

  Busse’s brows rose. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A necromancer. A man who …’ Simon’s hand lifted, and he wriggled his fingers as he sought for the correct word. ‘Who conjures demons to do his bidding. I’ll have nothing to do with such things, and I don’t understand why anyone else would. I fear such things too much to …’

  ‘Simon … oh, Bailif! Do you think I would ask him to produce a black demon to go to Tavistock and carry away my brother de Courtenay?’ Busse suddenly chuckled aloud. ‘Oh, Bailiff – would that it were that easy! No, all Langatre can do is foretell a little of the future. Not that accurately, I dare say, but he is a useful man to speak to. It seems to clear any confusion. And I had much before I made this journey. I wanted to think more deeply about whether I wanted to be the abbot. I was not sure. In my humility, I wondered whether de Courtenay might not be a better man for the job than me. And that made me fear.’

  ‘And Langatre put your mind at rest?’

  Busse nodded, his eyes shining in the firelight. ‘He pointed out to me that a man who was anxious about the awesome responsibilities of power would perhaps be better for our community than one who was utterly convinced of his fitness for the duty.’

  ‘So a man who thinks he is right for a job is necessarily the worst man for it, eh?’ Simon ventured.

  ‘Unless it is a mason taking on a building, or a herdsman asking to look after the cattle!’

  Simon nodded to himself. ‘Or,’ he added, ‘a good stannary bailiff who finds himself promoted to a new post in a different town.’

  ‘As I said on the way to Exeter, my friend, if you wish to leave that post and become a bailiff once more, I should be pleased to confirm it. What did de Courtenay offer you?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘What does it matter what he suggested?’

  ‘Well, if he had asked you to watch me at every moment, and report back to him, then there could be some trouble for me. If you preferred him to me, that is.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘From the first moment after we arrived in Exeter when I turned and noticed that excellent servant of yours behind me. His stern visage is hardly inconspicuous even in a large gathering. So what will you do?’

  ‘I cannot lie to him,’ Simon said, aiming an idle kick at his snoring servant.

  ‘No – but if you do not embellish, I will be content.’

  Simon eyed him, and gave a slow grin. ‘All right.’

  Busse raised his mazer. ‘A toast, then: to brother de Courtenay, and his patience, for I hope to be in post for many long years to come. And another toast, my friend: to the good stannary bailiff, and long may he endure on the moors with the tinners he administers!’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Monday, Christmas Eve

  Exeter City

  And as they drank into the long night, Will closed the door on his wife’s petulant complaints, hunched his shoulders against the cold, and set off once more on his nightly route, up the great street from the South Gate, and right along the way to the Palace Gate. He passed down the alley, and when he reached the burned remains of his house he stopped for a long time and stood, staring, at the place where his children had lain.

  His body was found the next morning, huddled in a corner of the path, not far from where Mucheton had been murdered. There was no sign of pain on his face, and no apparent wound when Coroner Richard had him stripped and rolled over.

  ‘So what in God’s name was there for him to smile about when he died, then, eh?’ the coroner muttered to himself.

  ‘Peace, Coroner,’ Baldwin said. ‘Just peace.’

  Dartmoor

  Maurice found a shelter as he walked down past Scorhill. For a man used to constructing little shelters, it was always easy to find a place. Always look for a fallen tree, look away from the wind, and imagine how someone else would make a refuge. This one was hardly the picture of comfort, and some of the covering had blown away, but it took little time to gather up more fallen leaves from about the place and replenish the roof of the little shelter, and for one man there was space to spread out inside.

  This was not the direction the sheriff would have expected him to go, and he was moderately certain that he was safe here for a while if he wanted. After a few days he could leave and make his way to the coast, pick up a ride with a sailor there. There were no fishermen or traders who had much respect for the king. They deprecated his customs and tolls on all their efforts.

  Soon he would be able to escape and make his way to France. And once there, he would find Lord Roger Mortimer and join his force.

  There was nothing left for this country but war and death. And to the victor there would be a great spoil: England.

  Maurice broke twigs and gave a hawkish smile. Yes. He would like to be with Mortimer when the lord returned. The rewards would be great.

  But his levity was short-lived. The last weeks in Exeter had been sad. To have to say farewell to his sister had wrenched at his heart – and then there were all the strange events and the murders.

  He was glad that the girl had been safe, although it had shocked him to see that the man who went to the hayloft to rescue her had been the same man who had killed the fellow in the undercroft that day. As old Will had lifted the latch on the hay loft, Maurice had grabbed his sword-hilt, ready to go and protect the child, but then he saw how kindly the old fellow had helped her down, and passed her his own old cloak, a dreadful, worn and threadbare one compared with the newer, but bloody one he had discarded in the alley after the killing, and Maurice had felt easier in his mind.

  Trailing after the two, he was still bitter that the girl had been left in the loft all night. He’d returned to the place early in the morning to make su
re that she had been released, and when he saw that the doors were still locked, he’d almost gone to open them and see whether she had escaped, but Will’s appearance had saved him the effort. Typical, he thought, that a priest should leave the poor girl up there all night – but then she was probably warm enough, and safe enough from most dangers.

  There would be more danger to come. He hoped she would be safe … and that his sister too would be safe from the risks of the war which was surely coming now.

  He had taken his leave of her two days ago. At the time she had said that her husband was well enough protected because of his alliances with the king’s advisors. And it was that which worried him most, because if she depended on Despenser, Maurice was sure that her husband would be viewed as an enemy by those who would come to seek Despenser’s destruction. Like these madmen who proposed to remove him by means of mommets made of wax.

  Fools! The only secure way to remove a man like Despenser was with a steel blade in the ribs, not some nonsense with a little lead or horn pin.

  Still, provided he could return here to protect his sister before anything went wrong, the coming war should give him a chance to renew his fortune.

  War could not come soon enough.

  Marshalsea, Easter Term in the nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward II12

  He shivered uncontrollably now. His unkempt beard was alive with creatures that bit and scuttled, making him scratch and rub until sores formed. After so long in gaols, he had the prisoner’s contant cough, the bowed back and anxious, fretful expression, knowing that any day could be his last.

  When he first came here, he tried to keep a tally of the days by scratching into the stonework of the walls with a rock, but that had soon failed him when winter arrived and day followed night without light. It was impossible to tell what was happening outside, and soon all seemed irrelevant. What was the point of reflecting on the world outside when all that mattered was in here?

  It was four or five years now since Robert le Mareschal had been first arrested. At the time it had seemed to him that he would probably soon be rewarded, but although he had waited long for the news, nothing had happened. In those days, of course, he had still been away at Coventry. That was when he had stood up in court and made his prosecution.

  Perhaps it was foolish to expect many of them to break down and confess, but how was he to know? He was unused to the ways of the king’s courts. All he knew was, he had to stand and make his accusation. That was what Croyser had said, anyway, and the sheriff had appeared to be on his side. He’d been almost as nervous as Robert as they waited for the jury to arrive. It seemed that way to Robert, anyway.

  And then the men had walked in. All the twenty-five who were still alive. By then, of course, John was long dead. He had died before the Easter term while he was in the sheriff’s custody, the lucky bastard.

  There was a rattle of chains further down the corridor of the gaol, and Robert le Mareschal’s ears pricked. No. Nothing more.

  Yes, all the twenty-five had stood there, the bastards, and even as Robert declared their crimes, telling how they had offered him and his master money, how they’d made the first payments, how they’d brought the wax and the linen to make the figures, and how their money had gone into the murder of de Sowe, they’d shaken their heads like saddened uncles called to witness the downfall of a favoured nephew.

  So the jury, formed only of local men, had found them all innocent. Not one had been found guilty. Which meant that the man who had accused them must himself be guilty: Robert.

  Never before had he appreciated the irony of an innocent man’s making a true statement of another man’s crime which a jury then found to be wrong. The sheriff had looked and sounded stern as he read out the verdict in the court of Gaol Delivery, and suddenly Robert understood that the reward for making his truthful statement was this: he should suffer the penalty which the men he had accused would have endured had they been found to be guilty. He was to hang.

  The chains came closer. He huddled against the wall, too scared to move into the darkness in the corner of the cell.

  There was a rattle in the lock, and the door opened. Two men stood outside, the gaoler and the sheriff. ‘Come on, you’re all right,’ Croyser said.

  It made him almost fall to the floor with relief, he was so comforted by those few words. ‘Oh … oh … oh, sir …’

  ‘Get up, man. Come on!’

  He allowed them to lift him. The gaoler put a hand under his armpit and hefted him to his feet, and he was walking, climbing stairs, shuffling along corridors, his ossified joints complaining at every step, his muscles, so long unused to effort, almost giving way.

  ‘Here.’

  The gaoler stopped him heading towards the main exit door, and instead he was taken to another door. There was a noise outside, a feral, thumping, pounding noise, and he couldn’t place it at first.

  Then he knew it. He understood. Turning, he would have fled, but the gaoler held a chain from his shackles, and even as he felt himself soil his clothes as the terror came back, Robert found himself being pulled backwards into the daylight, in front of the large crowd who stood stamping on the ground in their annoyance at the delay; dragged on his belly to the ladder with the rope dangling above it.

  And his last thought as the life was choked from him was that the look on the sheriff’s face was relief. Because at last he had removed the last witness to the crime in which he had been a conspirator.

  1 27 April 1324

  2 15 November 1324

  3 19 November 1324

  4 20 November 1324

  5 21 November 1324

  6 22 November 1324

  7 23 November 1324

  8 24 November 1324

  9 25 November 1324

  10 30 November 1324

  11 5 December 1324

  12 1326